Fireshy Firefly
by xxThrenody
Summary: They fight their hearts just as they fight against Him. Hermione didn't know his name then and it doesn't matter now; Harry smoked pain when he lit his cigarette; Ron found solace in whiskey where the pain in his head hurt less than the ache in his soul.
1. Introduction

I am not forcing you to read this, nor am I asking that you agree with my opinion or the viewpoints expressed in…whatever this might become. I do, however, look forward to your own opinions, and hope that you will share them with me. Additionally, I won't promise a strict update schedule because my own is highly volatile at the moment. They will be with reason, perhaps once a week, and the chapter content will be between 1,000 and 2,500 words. I apologize if this does not suit you, and invite you to wait a few weeks and read several chapters at one time.

Something that I find curious is that few authors that I have read account for the psychological stress and turmoil involved in war; even JRK takes her epilogue nearly two decades from the end of the war. She has left a lot to our imaginations about _how_ these characters come to terms with their losses and their actions, and how they were able to resume what we can only assume is a 'normal' life – marriage, children, the next generation of Hogwarts students. My portrayals of these characters will not be sunshine and daisies, simply because I feel it is highly unrealistic that they maintain childish innocence and enthusiasm when they must fight, take lives, and suffer losses in this war.

I've never done this before, so please tell me what you think. I'm bending canon to my will, taking pieces and making someone else's world my own. That being said, anything you recognize surely isn't mine; I'm sitting in JKR's sandbox, and I promise to return the toys that I play with.

***Update: I have the most wonderful of beta readers in the form of Crockywock. Therefore, the current chapters (1-13)** **are undergoing review and revision. You should expect a much more polished product that flows better in more places than just my own head. Any mistakes you find are most definately my own. Thank you for your time, your eyes, your Britishness, and your knowledge, Crockywock!**

Love always,  
**Threnody**.

* * *

**Introduction**

Most girls talk about losing their virginity as though they lost a friend, an heirloom; a treasured piece of jewelry. They talk as though they misplaced it, a book left by the embers of a fireplace...a trainer accidently pushed underneath the bed.

Hermione Granger didn't lose her virginity. She fucking threw it. She "lost" her innocence when she took a man's life, and she'd be damned if she "lost" her virginity, too.

She didn't know his name; it didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now. He had Apparated into Headquarters immediately following their – _her_ – battle with a soldier's stride, and spoken to Kingsley behind closed doors. From a hushed conversations and the way that he moaned, he might have been American. He wasn't much taller than she was, but he was lean and his body was hard, and when she pushed him against the wall, he didn't mind that a murder's hands pressed against his trachea made it hard to breathe. He didn't mind that blood was caking under her fingernails and that as it dried, it crumbled against his skin. Mud knotted her hair and something between hate and anguish hazed her eyes. She was feral that night, and when he woke, the only promise of her existence was what she left behind: bruises on his throat, welts on his back, and something inhuman that came from her throat and still rang in his ears.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

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15 November 1998.

Later – days, weeks, hours, – _they_ would talk. Someone should have been there. Someone should have watched her. Someone should have taken care of her, made sure she was okay. In a perfect world, someone wouldn't have had to. In a perfect world, she'd be lying near the fire in the Gryffindor Tower with her Potions text and two quills, and as she wrote she would banter with her boys, threatening to hex the chessboard if they failed the next exam. It would be a (mostly) idle threat, and there would be mirth lurking behind the disapproval in her eyes.

This world wasn't perfect. This world was fucking real. In the beginning, she'd been aware of the duration of the war… but days became months, and weeks were meaningless. The Order was ragged, handicapped, tired. It was trial-by-fire, and if you lived, you dealt with it because someone else died for you that night, and you had to fight the next day in their place and for their memory. In the beginning, she would sit with them. Harry lit his pain on fire and smoked it with the nicotine in his cigarettes; Ron found solace in cheap whiskey because pounding in his head distracted him from the parting of his soul.

_She shouldn't have been there_. She was a researcher, a healer, the rock when the others were breaking. This battle hadn't gone as planned. Violently surprised and desperately outnumbered, the plea for help from Harry's stag echoed through Headquarters. Kingsley put his head in his hands and sent Hermione, and in the wake of the crack of her Apparation, he told the displaced air she left behind that he was sorry.

It wasn't a victory. She appeared in mud and spells hit the ground almost as thick as the rain. She caught a flash of green from the corner of her eye and felt the air crushed from her lungs as Ron covered her, pressed her to the earth. The curse struck a rabbit as it tried to run and as she fought for breath he rolled and yanked her behind what remained of an oak tree. There wasn't time to ascertain if she was okay – her heaving chest assured him that she was breathing and right then, it had to be enough, and he left her to rejoin the fight.

On her feet, she trembled and adrenaline surged, and she leapt into the crossfire with curses and hexes spat fluidly from her tongue and her wand. Bill Weasley's voice roared _RETREAT_ and they did. She moved forward to grasp a still-warm hand from the mud and raked her eyes across the battlefield. From the Death Eater side there was a victory shout, and Hermione locked eyes with a face behind a mask. His lips twitched and his wand flashed—and then it fell because it's owner fell, and Hermione's heart stopped beating, and her stomach heaved, and then Harry caught her hand and she was yanked in Apparation even as she vomited.

Remnants of potato and cabbage littered the lawn of Grimmauld Place as she retched again until her stomach ached and her throat burned. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand (_murderer's hand_) and heaved again before she stumbled up the stairs. Bill, Ron, Seamus, Harry, Lavender, Pansy, Colin, Luna, and Remus, who carried the still-warm body of Mundungus Fletcher. They were bruised, battered, bloody, broken, they were all vacant eyes and pain. It was a mark of the state of the Order of the Phoenix that they didn't notice (_care?_) when Hermione didn't follow them into the makeshift hospital room.

Her heartbeat hurt her chest, and the echoes of someone else's scream hurt her ears, but she didn't feel the doorframe knock against her shoulder when she stopped to catch a breath, a murderer's hand pressing against her ribs where Ron had crushed her to the ground. She shook her head and swept her muddy hair into a knot held together by her wand. By chance, Kingsley's office was on the way to her room. His door opened and the foreign man turned to walk away. She let him take five paces before she shoved him against the wall. She was small, but she was fire and ice and pain and raw, and she growled as she drove into his body with her hands on his throat. He could have thrown her away, but he didn't fight her, and she lifted one hand and yanked his hair and his lips crashed on hers and she growled again and together, they fell into someone else's room. His surprise gave way to fervor, and he matched the passion of her pain with fierce lust.

She drew her wand from her hair and cast silencing and locking spells at the door. She was rough and she was cruel, but he didn't mind when she drew blood from his back or left handprints over his trachea. He didn't know that he was her first, or that she lost her innocence when she took a life, or that she had chosen to throw the last of it away before she could "lose" her virginity too.

She came, and then he did, and he groaned and sank into the bed. She was silent while she dressed, and then she left him, returning her wand to the knots in her hair.

Somewhere below her, Harry sat with Ron on the back porch and threw his third cigarette into the mud. He smoked one cigarette for every life he took, and then he smoked for himself until his hands quit shaking. Ron drank straight from the bottle, and neither had to speak. It was eerie and it was sad, the grace with which they held their vigil. It was the same kind of grace that Snape held over a cauldron, or Dumbledore with lemon drops… the kind of grace that is only achieved through hours, days, weeks, and sometimes years of repetitive motion. Harry took a deep breath and he lit a fourth. The pattern wasn't right, this wasn't the post-battle routine. As the fog faded from his mind,

"Hermione,"

and his voice broke.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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15 November 1998.

She shut the door to the room gently in stark contrast to the way she threw it open. The ringing in her head had dulled and she could hear little things again – the clink of silverware from the kitchen downstairs, Luna's laugh, and the foul mutterings of one Mrs. Black. Her vision was sharper - she could differentiate between the shades of brown in the wood of the floor. Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing steadied and she straightened her shoulders. She caught of her reflection in mirror and she lifted her chin in a look of appraisal.

_I need a shower. I need to wash my robes before the mud dries. Thank goodness they're black. Such a practical colour, really. Dark enough to hide ink stains, they don't show many potions ingredients, and they were most helpful when we were sneaking through the corridors after hours. I'm afraid my socks might be ruined though. Mrs. Weasley is quite talented with cleaning spells, she would have to be after raising seven children, but one would think that I simply ran out the door without my shoes. I didn't of course, but oh, I don't think they'll ever come clean. _Incendio!

And she had burned them before shrugging out of her robes. With a quick tap of her wand that left them clean, if not pristine, she hung them carefully in the closet as a small piece of order in a world of bedlam. The robe had shielded her shirt and jeans from the worst of the dirt, but the hems of her pants were caked in dead grass and mud and maybe blood. A second tap returned them a few shades more faded than their original glory, but they were clean, unstained, and perhaps just a little softer. She cranked the shower knob as far as it would go, and she stepped under the water and hissed as the heat stung her skin to an angry red, and she gritted her teeth and didn't move as the water turned brown before it swirled down the drain.

Eight minutes, two hours, the passage of time didn't matter in the haven of searing water and copious amounts of soap and shampoo. The bathroom was quiet, familiar, _safe_, and the scent of blackberries and vanilla was a balm to heal the rift in her heart. She closed her eyes and let hot water flog shoulders that were still tense from the fight as a fierce battle raged in her mind.

_I killed a man. No, I killed a Death Eater. He was a Death Eater first, a man second, just as I am a mudblood first and a woman second. No. He was a man. I _will not _think like them, I don't care if that is how wars are fought. I don't care that its human nature to divide the world into in groups and out groups, or that it's a tactic that has been used since before we had fire because it's easier to brutalize things that are less than we are. He was a man, he was a human being, he was somebody's son, maybe brother, maybe father, maybe husband or lover. He was a man, and he made a decision when he became a Death Eater. He made the decision that his desires, wishes, dreams, and beliefs were important enough to risk for his life. I can respect that. We all made that decision too. I made another decision when I accepted full membership to the Order. On that day, I decided that _my_ desires, wishes, dreams, and beliefs were important enough for me to risk my life and soul for. _

_Today, it happened. I killed a man because I'm a part of this damnation. I'm central. I'm the Muggle-born witch, and I'm Harry Potter's best friend, and I am seventeen years old, and there's too much I want to do for my life. I killed a man because Merlin help me, I am not ready to die just yet. _

In a Muggle house, with a non-magical shower, she might have stayed long past the point where hot water fails if only to see how long it would take before she could feel the cold pass through her skin, cool her blood, and settle in her bones. For better or for worse, however, she was in a magical house, with a magical shower, and the water simply didn't run cold. Curiously, one could still adjust the temperature to varying levels of heat, and Hermione pondered the safety in that feature and wondered if there had ever been a case where a witch or wizard boiled themselves to death. It was a much safer topic than that of her previous musing, and she was so entangled within her own mind that she didn't even start when thickly-accented, angry words came through the shower head.

"Good heavens girl, save some for the mermaids!"

Her eyes snapped open and she came back to the present with a scowl. She turned off the water and stepped into her towel, more from force of habit than an ability to feel the cold.

"What about the mermen? They _do_ occupy the same space as the mermaids, you know."

The shower head remained silent and quirked her lip just a bit before she paused, narrowed her eyes, and searched the hot metal. She laughed, hard and perhaps hysterical, when she found what she was looking for. Stamped on the underside were three small, inconspicuous words:

Made in China.

She didn't know why she was laughing, but she couldn't stop, and her knees gave way when the colors in her world ran together, and lines ceased to separate one object from the next. She kept laughing even as she fell, a dizzy heap on the floor, and she laughed until her chest hurt and she cried tears that might have been any combination of grief, anger, shock, guilt, and fear. She didn't know when it started and she didn't know when it ended, and her abdominal muscles ached from exertion, but she wiped her eyes and got to her feet, and when she opened the bathroom door, she was calm.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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**15 November 1998.**

She was quiet as she bent and gathered her cat, but he was bad-tempered ginger and spite, and she yelped as his claws drew across the back of her murdering hands and she recoiled.

"Damn it, you beast, I needed you."

He curled into a tighter ball and pointedly looked at her door. He had long since tired of the rotation of bodies in and out of Grimmauld Place but more than that, he had tired of the rain. There was something to be said for the half-kneazle's intuition though, and perhaps instead of (_in addition to?_) showing his displeasure at being uprooted from her bed, he had decided the girl and her counterparts were best suited being together tonight.

Later, if she were to analyze it, Hermione would chose the second scenario and think the best of him… but it wasn't later, it was now, and she was brittle and unfeeling when she stalked through the door with wet hair and pajama pants that dragged on the floor.

She met them on the porch and Harry threw a half-smoked cigarette into the mud while Ron leapt unsteadily to his feet. He drank enough whiskey to kill a hippogriff, but he had drunk it so long he could function. Ron was closer and she clung to him and he tangled his hands in the back of her shirt, and when his fingers touched the skin on her back they sparked, and she was jolted, and she cried.

He held her like that day didn't matter, and tomorrow wouldn't either. He held her like a father holds his daughter when she wakes up in the night. He held her like a man holds a woman he has loved for all his life. He held her like he had the power to make everything okay. Harry came behind her and held her like he could turn back the hands of time.

Minutes (hours?) fell away as they stood together in their solitude. Slowly, Hermione's shoulders quit shaking and Ron's fingers lost their death grip on her shirt, and Harry let her go.

_I'm sorry, its okay, time heals all wounds_ – they were empty sentiments, and they all knew it. It was hard to learn that sometimes words simply got in the way… but War was a harsh teacher, and she taught her lessons quickly. Hermione turned her lips up in a brief half-smile that didn't reach her eyes when Ron lifted an eyebrow and stared hard at the red on her neck.

"What is that?"

"Cheap whiskey and nicotine." Her voice was rough.

If he were disappointed he didn't say anything. Maybe it was the whiskey that made him slump or sway just a bit as he sat down again. Harry's eyes flickered from Ron to Hermione and then back again as Ron shrugged almost imperceptivity and raised his bottle to her. In his salute she saw his understanding, and when Harry pulled out another cigarette, she knew he did too. She straightened her shoulders and leaned against the rail, and they could see fire in her eyes, and they knew she could get through the night and maybe, someday she could even be okay.

Their fragile peace was broken as a second Order team limped through the doors. Tonks was bleeding, but her hair was magenta and her eyes were bright, and all three members of the team she lead were alive. Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge, and Charlie Weasley were animated – this time it was an Order victory.

Hermione gave a half-wave and she left the boys to join Madam Pomfrey in healing superficial injuries.

"Off," in reference to Tonks' shirt. She was abrupt, brief at best, but not unkind, and Tonks had been there one too many times to take offense behind the screen. She removed the blood from the Auror's shoulder easily enough, but she hesitated as her wand hovered to staunch the flow and cleanse the incision.

For a moment, she froze. _YOU KNOW THIS. You have done this every day for months. This is elementary. This is simple. This is classic, this is textbook, this is easy. Two days ago you reattached Diggle's last two fingers – successfully, even. Two days ago I had healing hands! Today I killed a man! This is hypocrisy. How can I take some lives and save others? I can't. I can't. I can. I have to. _And she took a deep breath and stopped the bleeding, had then performed a charm to prevent infection as she knit the skin back together. Tonks kept talking, and never noticed the conflict written in the lines between Hermione's eyes.

"Avery… well, the bastard fought to the death, and he tried to take me with him." She gestured to her shoulder. "Eddie Carmichael and Zacharias Smith decided to live another day and are being held before Azkaban. We interrupted the attack on the Creeveys… we got there in time, and they all survived. They've been moved."

Hermione nodded, smiled her congratulations, and was quite nearly trampled when Tonks tripped over a bump in the rug and scrambled to keep her feet in her haste to make her official report. Madam Pomfrey bore witness to the event and saw the quick spasm of pain flash across Hermione's eyes when Tonks' elbow collided with her unhealed ribs. With a quick admonishment for Charlie to _REST_, she was at Hermione's side with a gentle touch of her wand and a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

"Sit, Miss Granger, before you become my patient again. I know Kingsley sent you out today, and I know that you know how to heal a simple bruise. I also saw the moment you were unable to heal an injury you have fixed nearly every day of this wretched war. I am going to gather that you cursed someone today, and that the end result wasn't pretty."

"I killed someone today. How can I save lives in one breath and take them with the next? I'm not God!"

Poppy softened, and she drew a haunted girl into embrace. Initially she held an unyielding body, but a moment later, the stiffness broke, and Hermione gripped the Mediwitch much like a drowning man would hold a life preserver.

"Hermione, I can't tell you everything will be okay, or that it won't happen again. It wasn't right for you to have been thrown into combat like that, but I'm sure there was a damn good reason. Even Healers are soldiers, love – we have our orders, too. Today, yours took you into battle, and when you came home, those same orders brought a member of the Order of the Phoenix to you to heal. Until you are called elsewhere, I need you here – you know that. Your hands are good, your hands are gentle, and your hands are Healing hands. Events of today do not change that, love. Do not forget that. Take this for tonight, and only tonight. Tomorrow is another day."

And she pushed the vial into Hermione's hands, closing her fingers around it. Hermione slid off the table in the makeshift hospital room and as she turned to leave, she paused.

"…thank you."

It was enough as she crawled up the stairs to her room, downing the potion with a savage thirst and for a few hours at least, she ceased to exist, and it was wonderful.

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**A/N:** Hello again! While I feel the need to gently remind you that that updates this frequently will _not_ be considered normal, my enthusiasm has not diminished yet, and I do anticipate taking advantage of this fact. I also spent roughly four hours last night indulging my need for organization, creating the base structure for this story (from the looks of it, it appears that it will be a novel-length, and very easily over 100,000 words – are you ready?). It was quite surreal to decide who lived and who died, and has left me feeling distinctly melancholy, which may or may not be reflected in this installment.

As for my 1,000 world rule… well, I've failed it twice in as many chapters, and so my new guidelines will be not less than 1,000 words, and not more than 2,500 – of course, this rule is in existence only as long as it suits me.

I did make a promise to one of my reviewers to perhaps have another chapter out tonight – and although "tonight" is fading at roughly 3am, I am considering it to still be "night" because I cannot see the sun yet… and so here you are, with another update.

Love always,  
**Threnody.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

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**16 November 1998.**

Grimmauld Place never slept. The flurry of activity was not born from _**CONSTANT VIGILANCE**_, but rather from something as simple as necessity. Wards. Strategy. Burials. Injury. Training. Allocating money and stretching Galleons much farther than any of them had fathomed.

At 3:24 that morning, Kingsley Shacklebolt sat at his desk. His floor was littered with discarded parchment and broken quills, and in the corner, under the dent in the wall there were fragments of ceramic instead an oversized coffee mug. His shoulders were bent and his hands cradled his head, though they had started to slip from the sweat. He was tired, scared, angry, and ultimately desperate, and he prayed to whoever – whatever – might be listening.

_Merlin, Godric, Salazar, Rowena, Helga, God, Allah, Buddha, get us all through one more day. _

But his wartime existence had robbed him of faith, and he sighed heavily and straightened in his chair. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and resumed his diagrams and planning, trying to create something from nothing. In a magical world, it should have been easy.

It wasn't.

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At 3:24 that morning, Alastor Moody paced in front of his door. His sneak-o-scope shrilled because it always shrilled, and his Foe Glass was alive with shadows so corporeal he swore he could feel their breath when he stared at the whites of their eyes. They called him Mad-Eye, and it wasn't complimentary. He might have been mad but he was still alive, and that was more than can be said for the people he's killed. He was bitter and he was grizzled and he was horribly disfigured, but his leg seemed a small price to pay for justice, and he truly felt his magical eye was an improvement. Mad-Eye Moody paced in circles in front of his door and wished the adrenaline in his blood would dissipate so he could _rest_.

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At 3:24 that morning, Luna Lovegood sat at her windowsill and searched for stars between the clouds. Her window was open, and she had charmed it so that the rain fell straight instead of inside her room. Her nails tapped lightly on a silver bell as she drummed out a rhythm for Scottish Pixies, that they might have light in their life as she had found in hers. In a world fractured by content and riddled with uncertainty, Luna was serene. Her father's body had been deposited in front of Hogwarts two months ago, an unsuccessful attempt to find his wraithlike daughter. Her father's love prevailed for her then – he took her Secrets to his grave.

Like the others, the war stole away with her innocence… but in the wake of her pain, she saw as the war brought them closer together, and there were few things Luna held closer to her heart than her friends.

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At 3:24 that morning, Severus Snape flung open the front door with such a bang that his former students might have experienced a change in their dreams and found themselves sitting in Potions their first year at Hogwarts. Kingsley jumped. Luna smiled and put away her bell as she slipped between the sheets and closed her eyes. With a yell, Moody sent a jet of red light careening towards the intruder. Severus deflected it, and it shattered a lamp on his left.

"That was highly unnecessary, you deranged old man. You keyed the wards yourself, and they change every four hours and eighteen minutes. This location is Secret-Kept. It is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Surely this is sufficient, Alastor?"

"The Dark Mark on your arm is one of the main reasons the wards change every four hours and eighteen minutes! If I could manage it, they'd change every two!"

"How very... touching that the sacrifice of my soul means so little to you. And admirable really, that you think so…highly… of Dumbledore." His voice was like black velvet and colder than a winter frost. The smooth barb pertaining to Dumbledore served to incense Moody, and his face darkened abruptly. With a strangled motion he started to speak when a quick _pop! _diverted both men's attention to Madam Pomfrey.

"Enough, gentlemen. Alastor, your wards are due to change in twelve minutes. Severus, hospital wing – room, rather." With her hands on her hips, she was a force to be reckoned with, and she marched from the room with perfect certainty that she would, indeed, be followed. She was not disappointed, and with his opponent somewhat forcibly taken from him, Moody muttered and stomped back to his room to prepare for the next change of wards.

Constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance.

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"You. Bed. Now. Lie down. And do remove the Glamour when you remove your robes, Severus. I can only help you as much as you let me." She sighed and cast worried eyes from his head to his toes. Behind the safety of locked doors, he allowed himself his first grimace since arriving, and he moved gingerly, carefully bracing each joint – toes, ankles, knees, hips – as he settled himself on the bed. He winced as he fought the silver fastening on his cloak with stiff fingers and muscles that still jumped underneath his skin. He shivered a bit, pulling the white sheet over his narrow hips.

"He started it, Poppy."

She smiled then, turning back to her patient and handing him a potion that smoked faintly around the edges.

"Tremors from the Cruciatus first, but I am sure you were as innocent as the day you were born."

"Indeed."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as she flitted around him, gentle pokes and prods from her wand repairing the damage to his body. Surface wounds were easy, and as she closed shallow cuts and smoothed bruises from his pale skin, she tried not to think of how they formed. Too shallow and too insubstantial to have been intentional, he damaged his own body when he fell, flailed from Cruciatus. When she straightened and reset the bones in his wrist, he hissed, and it was by sheer force of will that he didn't jerk away and refracture them.

"Gentle, woman!"

"Hush, Severus. Now, do us all a favor and rest, won't you? Merlin knows you're even less pleasant than usual when you're in pain."

He muttered something that sounded roughly like "interfering" or possibly "meddling", but he rose gingerly and moved to his own quarters, carefully arranged a mere two doors away from Madam Pomfrey's hospital room. She frowned. He shouldn't have moved so soon after the potion, but it was a longstanding argument between them, and it was one she never won. Severus wouldn't rest, let alone sleep, unless he was behind his own doors. Given Moody's reaction to him, she sighed and decided that travelling six steps from one door to the next was the lesser of two evils.

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At 3:24 that morning, Hermione Granger turned over in her sleep.

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**A/N:** Dialogue is the bane of my existence – have I butchered it too horribly? What do you think of Luna? She is another one of my favorites, and a joy to write. Originally, I had her playing a relatively minor role in _Fireshy Firefly_, but she adds a bit of color to a very bleak world.

I'm anticipating a bit of controversy regarding the Snape-Pomfrey exchange, and I'd like to explain a bit here. With his role as a double (quadruple?) agent, and the rather sadistic demeanor of Voldemort, it stands to reason that Snape has been coming back to Poppy for many, many years to let her put him back together. By extension, I think it's logical that they forged a special relationship, one where he can let down his guard, relax, perhaps even confide things such as pain to her. Now, would he ever admit this? I think he'd rather die.

I also wanted to thank my reviewers – this is exciting for me, and you make my day I promise to respond to each individually, should you grace me with your time. So far, _Fireshy Firefly_ is on five alerts, and has been marked as a Favorite already, a mere four days after its birth! I am honored!

Love always,  
**Threnody**


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

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**16 November 1998.**

Grim silence woke her nearly thirteen hours later and she wondered if this was what it felt like to be run over by Abraxons. Silence meant Monday. Silence meant Kingsley was at the Ministry, and that Luna had been taken back to school. Silence meant at least two teams had been sent on missions. Silence meant that most, if not all, of the Weasleys had been dispatched on at least one of those teams. Experience told her that silence meant that at least one person was gong to come back injured. She wondered if hoping for injury made her a terrible person, but pain was better than death.

She moved slowly, haltingly – the muscles in her thighs, her calves were too tight to allow her a normal stride. In a brief moment of what she would later term insanity, she tried to lift her arms to wrestle her hair into some form of submission.

"_Bloody hell_." She hissed, regretting the impulse immensely. She forewent Muggle clothing beneath her robes and laced her dragonhide boots with more than a little difficulty. Opening her door, she peered both ways before starting down the stairs.

_Good. Lord. Who. In their. Right. Mind. Decided. Houses. Needed. More. Than one. Level. And. That. It was. A. Good. Idea. To. Employ. The. Use of. Boxes. To get. From. One. Level. To. The. Next?! _

She raged within her mind because anger was safer than grief and she didn't have to hurt and it made her feel alive… so she glowered about the abomination they called "stairs". Wizarding houses were worse than Muggle. They defied logic and reason and laws of gravity. Thirty stairs. Ordinarily, she appreciated round numbers. Ordinarily, they made her life simpler.

Today was not ordinary.

She cursed the idea behind stairs. She cursed the first man to use them. She cursed the architect of Grimmauld Place. She cursed Harry Potter for his possession of the wretched house. She cursed the Order for making it Headquarters. Thirty stabs of pain as her muscles protested stretching. Thirty opportunities for her mood to sour. By the time she reached the landing, she was quite near livid. She hobbled to the kitchen and was further displeased to see Harry drinking tea as fluidly as he might have had he spent the previous day warming the couch.

"Good morning." She was curt.

"Morning." His mood rivaled hers.

She eyed Harry's tea enviously from across the room and with a long-suffering sigh she crossed to set the kettle to boil. She looked away and grew distant, and when he studied her, he wondered where she went. He hoped it was good, wherever it was. Just before the kettle hissed, she took away the heat and added water to the loose tea in her mug. Proper tea cups were inadequate. She'd confiscated one of the large mugs that Kingsley drank his coffee from and even so, she needed three to function. She stirred, four times counter-clockwise, paused and watched the liquid swirl, and then reversed the flow with two quick stirs to the right. It reminded Harry of how she looked when brewing the Polyjuice Potion in her second year – a strange combination of concentration and resolve. The tea burned taste buds from her tongue and wrecked havoc down her throat… but even from the first sip, she became more alive.

"They sent out Ron." Ah. So this was the source of his mood.

"They're sending you again in two days. I get to stay safe here with Moody as my babysitter because he doesn't trust me to stay put."

She didn't hear his bitterness in his because she hadn't heard the second half of his words at all. Her mind convulsed as she fought to comprehend him, fought to understand. She clawed desperately at the edge of her sanity as panic sought to drive it away. She wasn't ready. She killed one man she didn't want to kill two. Three. More. It would be inevitable. It wasn't her, she couldn't do it, it wasn't what she wanted, it wasn't –

"Hermione, did you hear me? My job is to train you. You have two days. Calm down. Make the most of them. You need to change; we're going for a run." His voice was lacking something vital, and his eyes were hard with all the resentment of a teenaged boy. They were sullen, depthless, timeless, and right then, they were devoid of humanity.

She wasn't looking at his eyes. She didn't see the danger because her fragile hold on emotion and reality and poise slipped, and something broke inside her.

"Two days. TWO DAYS?! What the hell am I to do in two days?! I need time, I need to go to the library, I need to practice, I haven't done this, I'm not ready, I don't know what to do and I killed someone yesterday. I need to be able to bloody WALK. Harry, how am I going to do this? I can't do this, not in two days. I can't… I just can't. What if I'd been trained, what if I knew what to do, what if I didn't have to kill him? Why couldn't I have Apparated faster? Bill said leave. What if…Harry, please don't ask me to do this, please, not yet."

Her voice started shrill and rose even higher as her hysteria grew. Her eyes were bright with tears and terror and her chest heaved and she tried to breathe but her lungs were like the muscles in her legs they were too tight and she tried but she couldn't breathe because her lungs wouldn't inflate and her fingers were stiff but her knees refused to hold her weight and she slumped, slid out of her chair and Harry's Seeker reflexes weren't enough to catch her that time.

He softened though, and he sat on the cold hard wood of the kitchen floor and pulled her into his lap. Stroking her hair he berated himself for apathy, and he murmured softly in her ear. His voice was more sounds than words, but it was soothing, and she quieted, reined in control of her body and her emotions much quicker than she had last night. He could feel the transformation through the thick layers of their robes, as liquid steel coursed through her veins and settled into the jut of her chin and the brace of her shoulders… and he was proud of her strength and a bit awed by the sheer force of her will, but it in a rare moment of perception it broke his heart because he could see her losing pieces of herself, and the worst part was that she didn't seem to know.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

**16 November 1998.**

"Eat this. It's a Muscle Regeneration Agent, and no, it isn't a Wheeze. Aurors use it up to five times a week when they're training."

From his lap, she looked up at him doubtfully and fingered something that looked suspiciously like a lemon drop and reminded her of the Headmaster with a sharp prick beneath her ribs.

"Can you explain the theory behind it?"

Harry looked a bit flustered.

"Err, well, you know how when you're exercising, you tear your muscles and when they heal, they're stronger, right?"

Something like impatience flickered across her face, and he could see that she itched to correct him and further embellish the explanation and physiology of muscle-building. He continued before she had a chance to speak.

"Well, the Regeneration Agent, or RA, more or less lets you pick when you want to hurt, like at night. Regular pain potions disrupt the process of muscle building, and pretty much make the time you spent training a physical waste. They tried Muggle medicine for aches and pains, but no Muggle medication was prepared with wizards in mind and it just didn't work very well, and the ones that did help were too addictive and made people drink tons of water and do crazy things. Kind of like the Veela at the World Cup, actually, except girls were affected too.

There's a catch, though. Delaying the process forces it to work faster. It'll hurt more, but you can hurt at night so you can train during the day. And, the healing is cumulative which means so is the pain, so don't try to put it off too long. Most people that try to delay the pain during the week to recover during the weekend end up comatose."

Hermione snorted, pushing away the mental image of Gregory Goyle addicted to Percocet and propositioning everything that could remotely pass as female. She eyed the Regeneration Agent with mild trepidation and made an impulsive decision. She popped it into her mouth and almost instantly a cool tingle began on her tongue, tickled her esophagus, and spread through her body bringing instantaneous relief and extraordinary flexibility. She vowed to never, ever take muscular cooperation for granted and she tested her range of movement by pointing her toe and lifting her arms over her head.

"Give me two minutes." She pushed back from the table and took thirty stairs two at a time and nearly rejoiced when her legs didn't protest. She threw off her robe for loose pants and a t-shirt, and exchanged her boots for trainers, and she bolted down the stairs again. Mrs. Black sneered as Hermione skidded past, and she muttered of filth and coarse manners because ladies did not run, ever, but especially in a house, but what more could she expect from a mudblood. Hermione ignored her, and turned her eyes to Harry expectantly.

"Train me."

She gave him a brave sort of smile, the kind that lifted her lips and crinkled the skin around eyes that didn't sparkle. He didn't notice, or maybe he chose not to, and he provided her two bands with which to secure her wand to her forearm so she'd have it when she ran. He stretched, and she followed his lead. Words weren't needed when they left the yard, and Harry set a brisk pace along a carefully planned, protected, enchanted trail.

Three minutes later her chest hurt and her lungs burned. Her breathing was ragged, and she wanted to quit. He increased the pace.

Five minutes later her mouth was torn between dry and drooling and her throat ached. She wanted to kill him. He increased the pace.

Seven minutes later her legs were trembling and her arms felt like lead, dragging her, slowing her down and she couldn't breathe. She wanted to die. Whether it was divine intervention or an act of mercy, Harry Potter slowed to a quick walk after fifteen minutes. She stopped all together with her hands on her knees and tried to force oxygen into her lungs, and she nearly fell when he grabbed her arm and hauled her forward.

"Put your hands on your head." The bastard wasn't even winded. Had she any breath left at all, she would have yelled, snapped, or even spoken exactly what she thought of him, of running, and of the Order of the Phoenix. But she was gasping for air and she couldn't even whisper her protest. She was mutinous, and she very seriously considered the ramifications of murdering the Wizarding world's Chosen One with a curse to his back.

He seemed to know because he turned a quick circle and hollered "DOWN," and he dove. Preoccupied with his assassination, she wasn't as quick as she was, and he threw a _Stupefy_ that should have missed because she should have already dropped. She hadn't, though, and she was frozen with a new surge of violence in her eyes. He released her and she tumbled, landing awkwardly and scraping the palms of her hands.

"What in the _hell_ was that for, Harry?" Her voice was little more than a whisper but it was far from kind.

"You are training for combat. If your commander gives and order, you act. You don't think, you don't hesitate, and you don't look around to find out why. You _act_. You do it. Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione." Like her, Harry didn't raise his voice, but he was livid and the words fell like ice from his tongue. He was condescending and cruel, and for a moment she looked as though he had slapped her, and then she drew her wand but Harry had already cast _Rictusempra_ and she fumbled with a shield charm. It held – barely – and she shouted _Tarantallegra_. He didn't bother to block it. Instead, he dove and _Furnunculus_ shot from his wand. It struck her in the shoulder and she howled, something fierce and inhuman and the dynamics of their duel changed when she pointed her wand and cast _Relashio_, and then _Everte__Statum_ in quick succession. His eyes widened and he shouted _PROTEGO_ and the spell bounced off his shield and rebounded back to her. She was unprepared and it struck her in the chest and she flew like a ragdoll until _Levicorpus_ caught her ankle with a flash of white light, and he stalled her wild flight and lowered her more gently back to the ground.

"Come on. We're going for a run." And he set off again though her arms and legs were still tangled and she hadn't risen from the grass. She shook from adrenaline and from the boils in her shoulder. She shook from rage and shock and exhaustion and something very much resembling dislike. She prodded her shoulder and muttered _Episkey_ and rose unsteadily to her feet.

_One foot in front of the other. Bend arms. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Foot, foot, foot, foot, breathe._

She caught up to him and he increased his pace, and when he yelled _DOWN_ out of nowhere, she threw her hands in front of her to brace for impact and started to bend her knees to fall. The curse missed her because Harry was tired too, and because his aim was half an inch off. It was not because of her reaction, and Harry twisted and broke into an all-out run that she couldn't have kept pace with even if she'd been a runner for all of her life. There was bile in her stomach and acid rising in her throat and she choked and blinked and focused on the blurred image of a black-haired boy – no, _man_ – and she put one foot in front of the other and struggled to follow him.

From a distance, she heard _DOWN, _and she was only too happy to fall to the earth and cling to a small shoot of grass like it would save her life. Above her head, the red of Harry's _Stupefy_ struck a tree where her hips had been a fraction of a second earlier. It was a small victory, and she would have smiled if she could, but all she could do was lay still in the grass for three magical seconds of what passed for paradise before Harry rolled to his feet.

This time he was kinder, and he offered her his hand. Hers was slick with sweat and dirt, and their grasp slipped the first time. He took both hands then and hauled her to her feet. For the last half-mile back to Grimmauld Place, they walked slowly, and gradually the roar in her ears subsided and she could hear the easy rhythm of her breath.

* * *

**A/N**: Ohhhh, WHAT NOW. Two updates in a day. In case you couldn't tell, I am not a runner. I don't enjoy pain, and I really don't enjoy not being able to breathe. As an attempt to rectify that, I bought myself a running partner in the form of a German shepherd and though he's still young and we don't _really _run yet because of his joints, I've been enjoying the brisk walks/light jogs far more than I ever have by myself. Maybe by the end of _Fireshy Firefly_, Hermione and I will both enjoy running.

Yeah, right.  
But a girl can dream, right?  
Please leave a review -- and thank you to those of you who have given a piece of your time to me, and to _Firefly_.

Love always,  
**Threnody**.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

**16 November 1998.**

She wanted to go to the library; he told her he was better. Books had never failed her; he said that bits of parchment and ink had never _been there_. She didn't have the energy to argue, and he wouldn't have taken her answer. She surrendered.

Thus, nearly two hours later, she found herself discussing death over tea. Sheer habit kept her spine straight and her knees crossed, though she couldn't feel her legs. She was surprised that she felt civilized and wondered if the feeling came from tea or habit. It didn't matter though, because Harry was talking, and she wasn't so proud as to ignore his experience.

"Everyone has that one spell they favor. That goes for the Order as well as Death Eaters. Bellatrix uses the Cruciatus, she likes to play with her food before she eats it. Lucius Malfoy aims to kill. Dolohov created his own, and it causes massive internal injury. I prefer Expelliarmus. Neville is particularly fond of Petrificus Totalus - he's been quite attached to it ever since you used it so effectively against him towards the end of our first year. You need to know the Death Eaters though. You also need to find something that works for you, that you are confident with, that you are flawless with, and that will let you sleep at night."

His eyes were hooded, and as she nodded, she wondered if he had ventured from his Expelliarmus before. She supposed he had, and she wondered whether she'd be able to sleep tonight. She tilted her head, pondering her own repertoire of spells. In _that_ fight, she'd gone in cold, with only classroom knowledge and an unclear vision of combat. She had fought panicked, and all she knew is that spells had left her wand. She only remembered killing a man. She shivered, clenched her fists, and forcibly returned to the present. She conjured parchment and summoned a quill as she took the words from his mouth and made them concrete.

_Expelliarmus won't work for me. Neville should be careful with Petrificus Totalus, we don't know who can do wandless magic. Unforgivable is Unforgiveable. Boils? Distracting, not necessarily dangerous. Deprimo? Perhaps strong wind could be beneficial. The Entrail-Expelling curse is out. I'm not giving them more of my humanity. Boils aren't enough. Bat-Bogey isn't enough. Hmm._

She sighed and ran a hand through the mess of curls that hung from her head in quiet chaos. She desperately wanted a shower but was afraid to dedicate the time. Harry kept talking and she still wanted the knowledge of her books. In a back corner of her mind, she began putting together a list of titles that might help. With the rest, she focused her attention on his voice.

"…what we know regarding Death Eater dynamics. There is the Inner Circle. Snape, Bellatrix, Lucius, Dolohov, Wormtail. Sectumsempra, Crucio, Avada Kedava, his own creation, and Wormtail usually reverts back to a rat and hides. The first four are his best fighters, his most trusted. Wormtail got there by necessity when he brought Voldemort back. Of course, Snape is his Potions Master as well.

Bella is mad. She's dangerous, but she's mad. There isn't a method to that kind of mad. She thrives on her own pain and she lives to cause it, but her world is consumed by Him, and she comes a bit… err, more unhinged if you can keep her attention long enough to attack her relationship with him verbally.

Words won't sway Malfoy. Generations of perfect Pureblood customs mean nothing can be said to make him bat an eye. He's not as fast as Bella, but I reckon he's a bit saner. He's also overconfident, and he can get careless if things don't go as planned. Be ready to move, though. He has a good aim.

Dolohov is bad news. He's fast, he's nearly sane, but he's one-dimensional with that curse of his own creation. He doesn't like change and he doesn't do it well. Something else we've noticed is that he hates to fight in the rain, which makes Moody think he suffers from old injuries and one too many times with Cruciatus. Moody has people researching that angle.

We don't know as much about the Outer Circle, but they're deadly, just as much as the Inner Circle because they want to _be_ the Inner Circle, and they're willing to do whatever it takes to get there. The hardest part about them is that the Outer Circle constantly changes between promotions, demotinos, and death. They do the dirty work, so they have a really high casualty rate, but they're pretty much interchangeable. There's always someone else to take the dead guy's place."

Yes, this made sense. She was intimately familiar with Dolohov; he frequented her nightmares when her mind chose to revisit the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

Harry continued to speak as the sun fell from the sky. Watching him, she mourned the boy who died sometime in the last few months and marveled at the man in his place. The who took his place spoke articulately, authoritatively, most notably when he spoke of war and tactics. He paced when he lectured and Hermione was struck by the resemblance to Severus Snape. He was calm and he was confident, and she could hear truth in the inflections of his words. He'd fought and killed and nearly died, and these truths helped him stay alive. His voice melted into her memory in a way she knew she'd never forget, and she regretted it just a bit because someday, she knew she'd want to.

They both started as people flocked to the house, and it was only then that Hermione caught sight of the clock. 7:00 meant that Harry had talked through lunch and that day jobs were over. She didn't mind. She hadn't been hungry since she'd vomited her lunch the day before, and the thought of a public meal made her stomach twist.

"That's enough for today, I think." She nodded. She wanted books and a bath and quiet and peace, though she was ready to settle for the first three.

"Harry…when is Ron due home?" Harry's expression darkened. In a moment, the soldier vanished and gave way to a little boy who was afraid of losing his best friend. Suddenly, he didn't seem so tall and his shoulders didn't seem so broad. His face was pale and his cheekbones were too prominent. It seemed odd that his voice didn't waver, as though it didn't match the mouth that it came from.

"Three days. Kingsley hasn't owled me with the report from today. That was due at four this afternoon."

She nodded, grim and drawn.

"I'll be upstairs. Harry…the RA delays the pain for convenience. Do the Aurors have anything that accelerates the process"

If he were surprised by her question, it didn't register on his face, but when he spoke, he hesitated because he didn't want to answer.

"It's tightly controlled. They say it's excruciating and highly addictive. And… the longer you take it, the more it takes of your life."

"I don't have time to do this the normal way." There was acid on her voice and stone in her eyes and she was ashamed of the bitter residue that the words left on her tongue.

"I'll talk to Kingsley as soon as I see him." The boy was gone, again. Like the accelerant, five minutes of conversation had taken five years from his life, and it showed in new creases between his eyes and near his lips. These weren't happy lines, but it was war and you did what you had to, to stay alive.

* * *

**A/N**: Hello =) It's been a few days. Graduate School applications are anything but pleasant, but unfortunately, they're necessary. I also learned of the unexpected death of one of my first University professors, and it's shaken me up a bit. At 1:30 am, it is officially Thanksgiving for my American readers, and I wish you the best for this holiday. Give your family a hug, listen to stories, and create memories, all of you. Life on this earth doesn't last long enough.

Regarding the chapter, I know it wasn't quite as much fun as others might have been, but I hope this gave you a brief outlook of the Death Eater structure in my mind, and was also important to the state of Hermione's. Again, my degree is in psychology, so these little glimpses are significant. Please keep in mind that it will be a slow build to allow for character development, and that we're still under 10,000 words of a creation that will be 100,000 or more.

Another update _might_ happen (much) later today... if not today, then it surely won't happen on the madness that is Black Friday, because I'm one of those idiots that gets up at 4:00am and goes shopping.

Happy Thanksgiving!  
_P.S: Apologies it didn't happen - this chapter has minor updates, and the next should be up within the hour.  
_  
Love always,  
**Threnody.**


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

**16 November 1998.**

She retreated to the shower and for a moment, she saw mud run into the drain and _DOWN_ roared in her ears. She dropped without thought. Her heart paused, and then leapt again, because her eyes had failed her and she couldn't breathe. She lost her vision to black and shadow, and behind her eyes she saw the savage beauty that was spellwork raked across a midnight sky. When she blinked, it was water on her shoulders and tile beneath her feet, but the water was heavy, and her knees buckled and she grabbed at the knob roughly and turned off the flow. It sputtered, and she would have sworn it was an indignant sort of sputter.

"It _would_ be too much to ask of you to have gentle hands, wouldn't it?" Made-In-China's thick accent came through the showerhead.

She fought for breath through a haze of hate, and she glowered and hit the wall mere inches from the voice. She regretted it immediately…and yet she felt relief when her knuckles throbbed and a dull ache calmed the turmoil inside her head.

"At least they're warm, Mic. At least they're warm."

It was her last moment of peace.

* * *

Harry should have been waiting on her bed, kicking his feet and twirling a wand in his hand. He should have quirked a brow at her towel and turned away discreetly when heat rose to her cheeks. He wasn't though, and had she joined the Order for dinner, she would have known that Harry, Bill, and Remus were gone because there was a rumor of a gaunt woman with raven hair and a smile that just wasn't right. The rumor suggested that this woman had entered a shop in Diagon Alley alone, and had left with a small child, and that a young mother was in hysterics as she wept and ran and searched for her half-blood daughter.

Instead it was Snape, and there was frost in the glitter of his eyes and distain that dripped from the sneer on his lips.

"Really, Miss Granger, do you make it a habit to wander these halls with only a towel to cover yourself? Now that you have abandoned your classes and can no longer be called on, are you so in need of attention that you engage Order members in acts suitable for Knockturn Alley? I suggest that you clothe yourself. Immediately."

"Get out of my room!" She was shrill, incensed, and she wrapped the towel more firmly around her and crossed her arms. Heat burnt her face and she saw flashes of the night before, and the wizard she had so forcibly taken.

"There are few things I would like more than to leave you to your escapades Miss Granger. Unfortunately for you, and perhaps more unfortunately for me, Dumbledore and Kingsley have said otherwise. Now, I believe I said dress. You have forty-five seconds, and I will return.

She closed her eyes and drowned Snape and Voldemort together in the toxins in her mind, then she counted to ten and pulled on suitable attire. Despite a hasty ward she had cast on her door, Snape flung it open with a crash that damaged the hinges.

He leaned against her wall and she could feel displeasure radiate off of him in waves that almost pushed her back. He conjured a bar that hung in the air just above her head.

"Ten pull-ups."

She grasped the bar and hopped a bit, and fought to lift her chin above the bar. One, two, and her body shook. She didn't need to look at him to see the disgust in her efforts. Defiance was tangible in her mind, and her knuckles paled from the rigidity of grasp… but defiance wasn't enough, and neither was determination; Snape was not pleased.

"Not good enough. Fifty crunches. Your arms can cross your chest, or you can touch your ear with your middle finger. Begin."

These, she could do...and she did, though after number thirty-four, it required effort to finish. But she was pleased, and she stretched her back as he ordered push-ups from her. Of ten, she managed seven before he ordered her to stop and repositioned her, and demanded she start again. She collapsed shortly after her next attempt and drew blood from the inside of her cheek as she struggled not to scream, cry, or utter some combination of the two.

He was relentless. She saw red. He told her she was physically incompetent and that she was wasting his time. She told him to go to hell. His eyes glittered and narrowed malevolently and he said he going easy on her tonight. She sneered and told him she didn't need his charity. He smirked and conjured a bar that weighed seventy pounds, and he told her to squat, and she knew then that he had won. With a fierce scowl, she performed thirty squats. Somewhere between number twelve and number twenty, the red broke away and she forgot her anger when she got lost in the rhythm of her lifts and the surge of her pulse; she didn't see the short nod of approval.

* * *

_DOWN!_ he roared, and she dropped. It was instantaneous, but the grace in her fall left much to be desired. She hit her shin on the bar so hard that it purpled immediately, and tears burned her eyes. He demaned thirty more crunches, this time on her side.

Halfway through he yelled _MOVE_ and she lifted her eyes to him, puzzled, and was struck by a hex that blinded her. She shrieked and in that moment, Hermione Granger had gone and Rage was all that mattered. She grabbed for her wand, but it wasn't at her wrist, and belatedly she realized her error when she hadn't thought she'd needed it for her fitness session. With an inarticulate scream, yell, shout, roar, she lunged in the direction where she had seen him lean against the wall, but she hit her dresser instead. The force was enough to break the glass, and the shards shredded her skin and fell into her shirt and the carpet.

She didn't care.

She flung herself sideways and tripped over the bar and she felt her ankle give. From her position on the floor, she reached out and grasped anything, everything, and she threw what felt like long-forgotten shoes, hangers, books, socks, and quills in different directions, trying in vain to hit what she could not see.

Just as suddenly as her rampage began, it stopped, and all color drained from her face. She drew bruised knees up to her chest and clutched them with bleeding hands, as if by holding onto something, anything, she might find balance in a world whose spin she created. Her breathing was ragged and her entire body trembled, and he could see the war that raged across her face as she fought tears of raw emotion, and lost.

"Are you quite finished, Miss Granger?" He spoke barely above a whisper, and Hermione shivered involuntarily. There was death in the silk of his voice, and she hugged her knees tighter.

"Yes, sir." Her own voice was a whisper, and there was nearly nothing behind the words. She could hear the brush of his robes as he moved his wand as he restored her vision without speaking.

"Be warned. This will not happen again. "

"Professor, I-"

"Hold your tongue, Miss Granger. You lost the right to speak when you lost your mind. It will not happen again. You are an adult. You will act like one, or I will personally see to it that any and all of your memories regarding the Order are removed, placed in a pensieve, that said pensieve is destroyed, and that you are Oblivated on the grounds that you are mentally unstable and physically unfit to serve the Order of the Phoenix. I daresay this is not something you desire."

She shook her head but couldn't meet his eyes.

"There aren't enough of us to attack each other."

He sounded…almost tired, then; perhaps not necessarily tired, but closer to human than she'd ever heard before. She tucked her chin then, and better swimmers than she would have drowned in the waves of her guilt.

"This is the Accelerant you requested of Potter. Prepare yourself and take it immediately. You will be dressed and ready to run at precisely 4:30 am, and you will meet me on the porch."

These were not suggestions,the words that fell from his lips, nor did he invite negotiation. He withdrew a small vial of something mahogany, and he left it in her glass shard graveyard as he strode from the room. Even here, his robes billowed behind him, and in his wake, all that Hermione heard was Harry's voice in her mind as it echoed, _"Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione."_

* * *

**A/N**: Yeah, she kinda lost it. This chapter was a spur-of-the-moment decision; I moved my original plans for this chapter back to the next, because my muse is an insistant thing, and she refused to have it any other way.

"Mic" is Made-In-China, her talking showerhead. He's a funny little guy, though if a male voice came out of my showerhead, I'd probably have a small heart attack.

If you have questions regarding her behavior here, please feel free to PM me - this goes for any and all chapters.

Love always,  
**Threnody.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

**16 November 1998.**

_Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione. Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione. Death Eaters – STOP. _

She covered her ears with her hands and shut her eyes against the world. Glass got caught in her hair, and for the first time she felt the sting of the cuts in her hands and the throb of the bruise that had already risen on her shin. When she opened her eyes again, her breath died in her throat as she surveyed the damage she had wrought to her room.

She had dented her walls and torn the cover off of _1,000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_ - she felt its abuse pulse deep in her heart. The weight bar had scratched her dresser, though the crowning jewel was the remnants of her mirror and the glass-shard graveyard that had become her room.

She limped to her nightstand and with a gentle _Reparo_, she mended the book first, and then her dresser. One at a time, she restored her walls, but not even magic could resurrect her mirror. She lamented its loss, but her grief was marred by mortification and shrouded in shame. She Vanished the splintered wood and glass fragment, and she left the damage it had done to her skin.

Similarly, she hobbled across her room to retrieve the vial of mahogany liquid instead of simply Summoning it to her, and she took small comfort in serving penance through pain. She eyed the vial dubiously and lifted it in a sardonic salute, putting her life in the hands of Wizarding science and the talents of the potion's maker.

As soon as the cinnamon burned her tongue and set fire to her throat, she understood. The pain was shocking, really. Her vision had blurred around the edges and she desperately wished she had read more, had understood more, had questioned more. Harry hadn't told her it acted as fast as the RA. He hadn't told her that she needed to be lying down in the position of her choice, because nearly instantaneously, choice was taken from her. He had said extremely painful, and he'd said that putting a week's worth of healing into a weekend would put wizards into a coma. He hadn't told her that delaying her body's healing just one day would make her _wish_ for a coma.

She'd been sitting on her bed when the cinnamon touched her tongue. The muscles in her legs had failed and she'd lost her brace against the floor. She'd tumbled, and the strength in her arms weren't enough to lift her. Her muscles stretched and tore and healed, stronger than before, and through it all she screamed color instead of sound.

* * *

**19 November 1998.**

She didn't sleep. Through the night, she watched the passage of time, marked by unobtrusive red numbers that hovered above her wand. She counted minutes like she counted thunder and flashes of lightning, and she tried to keep the numbers separate in her head because it was something to think about that did not involve pain. As the numbers neared 4:00, she felt the tremor s in her muscles slow in frequency and dull in pain. By 4:18, she felt bold enough to attempt movement, and she lifted herself to a sitting position on the floor. 4:28 found her on the front porch steps, stretching similarly to how Harry had shown her the day (_only one day?) _before, and marveling at the way her body moved. She felt… more limber, stronger even – though she attribute this to the placebo effect, because truly, one day's efforts, even through magic, surely couldn't have such an immediate effect. It didn't matter though, because at precisely 4:30, Severus Snape opened the front door and shut it, much more gently than not.

"Professor, I want to apologize. I acted rashly, immaturely, and there is no excuse for my actions. I'm sorry and itwon'thappenagain."

Her words ran together like the puddles on the ground and he sneered, and she dropped her gaze, and she scraped a fingernail against the cuticle of her thumb.

"I believe we discussed this last night, though it is good to know the verdict hasn't changed. Roll your pant leg to the knee – no, the other one."

She was puzzled, but she drew the material up to reveal the bruise on her shin. It was a magnificent showcase of deep purple and magenta, and the colors could have been beautiful if they were not showcased on skin. He tapped the bruise with more force than was strictly necessary, and she flinched and yelped as it healed, and left a rush of anger in its wake.

"Atone for your sins in another way. This will only serve to hinder your progress, and waste my time. Come."

She ground her teeth but she followed him quietly, preferring more to preserve her breath than to defend her dignity. In the cadence of footfalls and measured breaths, she let her mind go, and she wondered how he had known, not only that she had left the bruise, but why she chose to leave it. There had been no touch of Legilimency.

"_DOWN!_" Broke her thoughts and she dropped. It wasn't fast enough, and a Stinging Jinx caught her in the shoulder. As she rolled slowly to her feet, a second caught her in the thigh, and she shrieked and dove to her left, casting a shield as she hit the ground. His third hit the shield, and he lowered his wand.

"Hiding, Miss Granger? Do tell me where the fun is in that?" He cast a Hiccupping Hex and she cast _Protego_, and she glared because she saw mirth in the gleam of his eyes.

"I apologized for my – _PROTEGO!_ – actions last night, and promised not to – _PROTEGO!_ – attack you again! You yourself said that there weren't enough of us to fight each other! _PROTEGO!_"

She cast shields against the hexes and jinxes that he threw at her even as she spoke, and she was winded but wary with her left hand on her hip. Even standing, he held an easy grace, and it irritated her that he could stand straight, with his shoulders squared, and seem indolent in the same moment. Only then did she notice that he was dressed similarly to her, in a fitted black shirt that clung to his arms and black pants that and were resistant to the rain that had dusted her own. It was practical, and later, she would berate her stupidity – had she expected him to run in Wizarding robes? Somehow, he was still intimidating.

"They call you the brightest witch of your age, girl. Tell me, what good are a few miles of running? You could be reading books, you could be practicing wandwork, you could be sleeping, for Merlin's sake. Why are you outside, running before the sun is up, when you will be fighting for your life tomorrow? Do _not_ answer 'because you said to'."

"I…," her eyes widened a fraction and she closed her mouth, reconsidering her answer. He waited.

"Additional endurance-"

"Will not be gained by two days' efforts."

"Following orders-"

"Is something that you have demonstrated proficiency in with your academic scores, though it seems that skill is conditional to textbooks and occasionally, the classroom. _Expelliarmus_!" and she lost possession of her wand. In the next breath he cast _Crucio_ above her head, _Rictusempra_ to her left, and _Furnunculus_ where she had been standing half a second earlier.

Hermione's heart beat so hard in her chest that she felt the echo in her skin, and she caught her breath as she ducked and then dove forward in an awkward roll. She yelped in pain when her neck cracked and her shoulder drove a rock into the dirt, and she hissed.

"Bloody hell!"

Lazily, he cast _Stupefy_ into the ground next to her and mud spattered her face as she lurched to her feet, only to drop again when _Furnunculus_ shot past her ear. Between the adrenaline and exertion, sheer confusion and something dangerously close to wrath, her vision swam and she couldn't breathe, and she couldn't think, she could only –

"REACTION." And like magic, he lowered his wand and extended hers.

"The word I was looking for was actually "reflexes", but "reaction" will suffice. Five points to Gryffindor."

She could hear the sneer in the drawl of his words, but all she wanted was to breathe. And-

"Professor, why-"

"You will need to multitask, Miss Granger. My presence is required at Hogwarts." He slipped his wand back under his sleeve and took off at a brisk run. She cursed him under her breath and shoved her own wand into a knot in rain-tamed hair, forgetting to measure her breath as she struggled to catch him. He was correct about a few miles not improving her endurance over the span of a day though, and she would fail, trailing behind him, struggling to not break her pace as the stitch grew in her side.

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**A/N**: Wow, was the last chapter that awful? No reviews. =( That's almost enough to scare a new writer into jumping ship! I even enabled anonymous reviews to try and feed my newfound addiction... what could I have done last chapter to invoke a response from you guys? Would cliffhangers do it? Previews?

-- I stand corrected! Thank you, kitsaumuels! You've made my night!

I'll be adding dates to previous chapters to make the passage of time more visible. The story won't always take 14,000 words to move two days, but these first few chapters are key to the development

Uhm, someone gets captured, and, as a warning, the next chapter does involve minor character death. Reviews will spur me to a faster update. :D

Love always,  
**Threnody**.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

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**16 November 1998.**

She lost herself in literature and the passage of time was tracked by the beats of her heart. She was settled in an armchair, barricaded by books and soothed by cups of tea that grew cold as she forgot the existence of the rest of the world. The more that she read, the calmer she felt, until Harry's voice brought her back to Earth when he stumbled across her name.

"I thought you were supposed to be kept safe." She lifted her eyes to meet his and nearly drowned in the anxiety that pooled there. He smelled of cigarettes and she closed her book, taking a hand that still trembled. He drew her from the chair and half-pulled, half-tripped to the porch where he lit another cigarette and tried to stop the shaking.

"It _was_ safe. Kingsley knew we were too late. She turned eleven three weeks ago, Hermione. She never even got to see Hogwarts. Bellatrix took her while she was being fitted for robes, and her mother had gone to the back to pay."

Hermione closed her eyes and flinched through her body, all the way to her soul, and she kept Harry's hand in both of her own. He took a long drag and for a moment, she was glad that a lost little girl inspired such fervor because it meant the war hadn't ruined him yet, and then she was ashamed because she wondered how much longer one man could continue to care. He exhaled silver tendrils that wrapped around the night and he pulled her close to his chest. In another time, the gesture could have been romantic; perhaps, had they an audience, it would have looked that way regardless.

He didn't need her to speak; it was enough that she was there and he could feel the subtle heat of her body that told him she was real. She was quiet because she knew he didn't need words, and long minutes passed while she counted the number of times that his chest fell. The clothing between them wasn't enough to hide the sharpness of his body and she let her head rest against the hollow under his shoulder until he took a deep breath, and the fingers holding her ribs slipped to her hip, and she breathed her own relief because she knew he'd keep caring that night, and it was the best that she could have hoped for.

She'd spent the last seven years of her life with him, but she had never seen Harry like this. He'd thrown his cigarette and grabbed her wrist and he dragged her after him roughly until she understood that they were going for a run, even though she didn't have shoes on her feet. When he roared _DOWN_, she was ready, and she dropped and fired spells that turned orange by the light of the fading sun, and then she scrambled gracelessly to her feet because she needed to _MOVE_ because he'd already thrown another hex at the spot where she'd been. It was exhilarating; she recognized the tempo and Harry was free.

She was cautious, but she understood the Accelerant this time, and she chose the middle of her bed before she opened her throat to the quick flood of cinnamon. The pain rendered her not-quite blind, but she couldn't see color, and the shades of grey blurred together. In her head, she saw the words that she'd read earlier that day, and she clung to them desperately as a way to pass the night.

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17 November 1998.

She had slept some, but she had not slept well and her eyes felt like sandpaper. With a muffled oath, she groped for the vial of Pepper Up, uncorked it with her teeth, and tipped it back into her mouth. Definition returned to her world in the form of lines and boundaries and individuality. Adrenaline interrupted the fluidity of her movements and sharpened her senses. The air felt heavier today and the world seemed quieter. All she wanted was tea for breakfast, but Harry had disagreed and insisted she eat sausage. She compromised by eating toast with jam like she had so many days before, though on this day it tasted too sweet.

She admired the morning, taking careful note of the birds in the sky and the precise shades of bright scarlet and pale yellow on the trees as the leaves began to change, and she marveled that something could be so lovely when it died. Her thoughts were halted by the dull thump of Moody's leg as he entered the kitchen with Tonks, Seamus Finnigan, Charlie Weasley, Alicia Spinnet, and Kenneth Towler. Tonks and Charlie were jovial and Seamus and Alicia argued the merits of Irish Quidditch. Kevin was new to the Order though, and Hermione thought there might have been truth to the idea of smelling fear. She recognized him vaguely as a former Gryffindor, though she was currently more preoccupied with keeping her toast down than trying to soothe his nerves when she couldn't even settle her own.

She took another cup of tea and lamented the small cup as she watched Moody's lips move and she listened to his voice.

"This is a raid on a Death Eater safe house. On paper, it's owned by the Crabbe family. Activity has been minimal, but we have it on our own pet Death Eater's authority that it is in use, and that a good chunk of medicinal potions are being stored there. We are expecting to interrupt a new shipment to that house, and should find Crabbe Sr., Goyle Sr., Draco Malfoy, Rodolphus Lestrange, and Snape. With Lestrange, we run the additional risk of encountering Bellatrix."

Moody paused to glower at each of his team members, and his gaze lingered on Hermione. Belatedly, she felt his stare, and her lips stopped moving as she halted her mental assessment of the Death Eaters he had listed.

"It is unlikely they will be masked. If they are, remember Snape fights with _Sectumsempra_. I am under strict orders by Dumbledore to not fatally injure him, and I am also under strict orders to pass along those same strict orders to each of you."

His lip curled, somewhere between disgust and distain, and Hermione wondered if it caused him physical pain to issue that reminder; if she judged by the expression on his face, the level of pain must have been significant.

"Any questions? No? We have a newcomer. Towler, keep your head on straight, this isn't training anymore and Death Eaters don't follow anyone's rules. CONSTANT VIGILANCE. We leave together, via portkey, in 3, 2, 1, -" _Pop._

When the pull behind her navel eased, Hermione opened her eyes and saw dead trees and an unnatural shimmer that screamed of magic and secrets and something of value. She snorted slightly and resisted the temptation to roll her eyes because subtly rarely existed in the wizarding world. Even the most untrained of eyes could have noted that something was being protected because dilapidated shacks rotting in the middle of the woods weren't worth the effort it took to ward them.

They moved forward as a group, fanning out and taking care not to break dead tree limbs or crunch fallen leaves. Their caution didn't matter though because the shack was alive with Dark magic and with a shout, Tonks touched a leaf that tripped a jinx that went straight to her heart.

Hermione heard a shout and saw movement and she felt the magic of curses and hexes singe the air. She heard _DOWN_ in her head and she dropped to the ground and _Stupefy_ shot from her wand. She was unschooled enough to be elated when Draco Malfoy fell to the ground, and then she panicked because she counted nine death eaters when they had hoped for five and anticipated six. _MOVE _hurt her ears and then _Sectumsempra_ severed the branch where her shoulder used to be, and later she would think that she was crazy, but she thought she saw something reminiscent of approval in Severus Snape's eyes.

Moody was right; they weren't masked, and Hermione dove again to avoid Bella's first _Crucio_ her shoulder throbbed from the awkward roll. A moment later she forgot her shoulder when the second Cruciatus landed just above her naval. She dropped, and it might have been mercy that she didn't see Kenneth Towler forget his training and try to cast _Imperio_ on Alecto Carrow. Carrow was dueling Seamus though, and instead, the curse hit Seamus and he froze in the middle of his battle. With a shout, Towler fumbled with his wand and dropped his eyes just in time to miss the bold flash of green light that took his life away. Alecto didn't live long enough to celebrate; Charlie Weasley took revenge when he took Carrow's life, but wasn't soon enough to still the look of delight in the Death Eater's eyes.

Hermione's screams overshadowed Tonks' when fire erupted from her skin, but Tonks cast a hex that left Bella's muscles too soft to hold a wand. Hermione convulsed, curled with her nose touching her knees as she fought to differentiate the sky from the grass. The sides had been compromised in a furious rush of death and order and right then, her vision was blurred and she couldn't tell the difference between furious faces and light from the wands. She caught sight of Snape as he aimed for Seamus, who hadn't been the same after thirty-nine seconds of _Imperio_. She tried to cast a trip jinx, but she should have known better and that he was too fluid on his feet. She understood the significance when red _Stupefy_ slipped between her legs and she leapt aside when _Sectumsempra_ just missed her hip.

At that moment, there were two howls. One came from Moody and it was a turbulent combination of wrath and agony when Bellatrix caught him with _Crucio_ as a punishment for dismantling the protective wards on the shack.

The second howl came from Alicia Spinnet. She didn't move fast enough to evade the _Sectumsempra_ that Severus threw at Hermione and it flayed her abdomen from the bottom of the left side of her ribs to the hollow of skin that dipped between her hip bones.

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A/N

: I cannot convey with words how heartfelt my apology is for leaving you two weeks without an update. The first tier of grad school deadlines occurred on the 15th of this month; for the six days prior, I lost four pounds in the throes of two back-to-back migraines that made light, food, and any noise intolerable. Additionally, I have a project pony in the form of an off-track Thoroughbred mare, and she makes me a better person.

I want to thank the people that reviewed Chapter 9, and I want to assure you that I haven't jumped ship just yet. I threw a few things back and forth in my mind, and came to the conclusion that I am going to do this correctly, not take shortcuts, and weave this story to the best of my ability.

It occurs to me that I haven't yet mentioned that this story exists in my own mind; thus, a different universe entirely from that of JKR. It _does_ take place during their 7th year, though many of the 7th year students have elected to fight in the war rather than take formal classes. At some point, I will build this little bit of information into the first few chapters of this story, but that is a later project. For now, it is enough that it is here.

Please feel free to drop me a line with any questions you might have, and if you could spare a moment of your time, leave me a review

Love always,  
**Threnody**.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

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17 November 1998.

_The second howl came from Alicia Spinnet. She didn't move fast enough to evade the __Sectumsempra__ that Severus threw at Hermione and it flayed her abdomen from the bottom of the left side of her ribs to the hollow of skin that dipped between her hip bones._

It was Alicia's blood that righted Hermione's world when the spray hit her face, her nose, her lips. The trees stopped moving and she leapt over Towler's body and sidestepped shallow fissures in a ground disfigured by wayward spells. She wasn't sure where the agility came from because she'd never moved like that before, but she defined her own front line, in the open, she was by herself in front of six people and a dead man and she screamed _PROTEGO! _with so much passion that her voice carried over the pain and rage that blinded both sides of the war. Two seconds, five, six, the effort shook her bones and broke blood vessels in her eyes, but she held it eight, nine, ten. She held it long enough for Moody to re-issue orders, and somewhere, way far away, Hermione heard that Seamus was to Disapparate with Alicia in his arms and Towler's dead arm wrapped around his leg, because he deserved dignity in death, and Alicia wouldn't live much longer.

Hermione swayed dangerously on her feet, and her shield flickered alarmingly. In the fraction of a second it took for her shield to fail completely, Tonks, Moody, and Charlie overtook her and as one, cast _Confringo_. The blast brought her to her knees and when she wiped her nose, her hand came away red, and only some of the blood was Alicia's. She lurched to her feet and stared in disbelief when Rookwood, Rodolphus, Snape, Lucius, Crabbe, and Goyle Sr. flew backwards, but their flight was nothing compared to the explosion of the safe house. The sky was lit in shades of deep purple, magenta, and black. She shrieked when the green of the Killing Curse lanced toward them, and they scattered, and Moody was hoarse when he called for their return home. She didn't object when Charlie took her arm and Apparated her with him, because her body still trembled with the effort it took to hold her shield and she collapsed back on Grimmauld soil.

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When she woke, the white of hospital walls and bright light should have hurt her eyes. In a clinical sense, she noted discomfort but it didn't matter because she was straining against the bed and disoriented. Alicia was on her left, still and quiet with a face so pale it rivaled the bandages around her middle. Her heart beat fiercely against her chest and she found it hard to breathe until she caught sight of the phoenix that was painted above the hospital doors. As designed, it grounded her like it grounded all of the soldiers that woke somewhere strange in the midst of war, and she calmed. It was strange to feel serene in the hospital room, but having spent hours healing, she did.

She took a moment to take inventory of her body and found herself to be lacking superficial injuries, having three chipped nails, but in one piece. She swung her legs over the bed to examine Alicia, but the motion triggered alarms that Poppy had set and within seconds, the mediwitch hurried into the room.

"Lie back down and don't move, love. I need to look you over more fully, now that you're awake."

"Will Alicia be okay?" Hermione asked, even as she complied. Poppy was grim and hovered over Hermione, waving her wand and casting diagnostic spells over the younger girl. She still hesitated before answering.

"Severus' _Sectumsempra_. He intended to miss you, and couldn't have anticipated Miss Spinnet stumbling in the way. By itself, it _can _be healed, but it appears she was already bleeding internally. She was brought here quickly, but I couldn't heal her. I induced a magical coma, and cast a stasis over the injuries. It is temporary, not a solution. Severus is brewing something to try and repair the damage."

"Merlin… is he okay? And Tonks..Charlie… Oh, God, Towler!" Her stomach heaved and she leaned over the side of her bed and lost the contents of her stomach to the hardwood floor. The contraction of her muscles sent stars behind her eyes and she moaned and curled into herself.

"Physically, Severus was unscathed. Tonks had burns, Charlie broke his left hand and dislocated his shoulder, Seamus was only superficially injured, and Moody is recovering from Cruciatus. You, dear, had cuts and bruises healed. You still need to receive the potion that helps with the tremors, but the Cruciatus aftershocks will be particularly severe, because that shield you cast nearly exhausted your magic. Moody said he hadn't seen anything like that and wants to know how you did it." Poppy sighed and ended her spells, noting on Hermione's chart that the drop in magic had stabilized, and though painfully slowly, was beginning to rise again.

"For now, you need to rest. And, it is imperative that you do not use magic until your levels are safe again. To do so would run the risk of anything between a coma and losing your magic permanently." She paused. "Oh, Hermione – Mr. Weasley's – that is, Ron's- group returned shortly before your own. You should know that he came back unhurt, and Bill Weasley and Sturgis Podmore are both alive and healing.

For just a little too long her face remained blank, before she schooled her expression into that of pleasure. She bared her teeth in what she intended as a smile, but it curved her lips the wrong way and didn't reach her eyes.

"Thank you. I… I need to go. I need… to go." She fled, haltingly and ungracefully, from the makeshift hospital room. Hermione Granger desperately needed air in a way she hadn't in… three days. Her lungs ached and her mouth was dry and her pulse pounded in her temples. She threw open the front door and Harry spun with his wand drawn on her. It was a reaction, instinct, a manifestation of perfect wartime training and she shook her head and her breath caught in her throat. As quickly as he drew his wand he shoved it in his waistband and drew her into his arms. Murmured apologies and regret fell like rain from his lips and he clung to her like he was afraid she'd leave – maybe she would have if he let go.

Ron was sprawled on the floor with his back braced against the house and his hand wrapped around the bottle between his legs. He felt guilty because he'd walked away from his battle uninjured. Bill had nearly lost his life and Sturgis had endured the Cruciatus, and he drank away the guilt because that was the only way he could fall asleep at night. The scent of whiskey assaulted Hermione's nose and it was heavy but inviting and she knelt, unpeeled his fingers, and drank straight from the bottle. Ron tried to look at her but his eyes wouldn't focus and his mind had drowned in the sheer quantity of alcohol he had consumed. He tried to speak, but she couldn't tell when one word ended and the next began and she shrugged and drank again.

She hadn't done this before. It wasn't like her, but she decided it was okay. Already the sharp angles of her emotions had been smoothed, softened, and the roar of thought in her head had dulled. She tipped the bottle to her lips a third time, and between lack of food and medicinal potions, it was enough warm her fingers and toes and let her giggle (really giggle) with a grin that crinkled the skin around her eyes when Ron passed wind and was too inebriated to notice. Harry rolled his eyes and hauled his friend to his feet. When the task of walking proved too arduous for Ron to achieve, Harry simply levitated him through the door and into his room.

Thoroughly amused, Hermione bade them both goodnight, capped the bottle of whiskey, and with a flick of her wand she sent it back to the cabinet that held Ron's collection. An angry pulse between her eyes made her flinch, and she admonished herself to not use magic while recovering.

For a long time, she simply sat outside and admired the beauty of the night. She fancied that the stars were souls who had defied gravity, suspended between time and space. She admired their beauty, and wondered how long they had studded the sky; if, in the nature of astronomy, that time and age were directly proportional to distance. She wondered if Kenneth Towler had become a star, and she wondered if falling stars were souls that chose to escape. She wondered if Death Eaters had souls, if they could become stars. She wondered if murderers could be stars, and found it hard to rationalize something so dark could ever be something as beautiful as the glowing balls of gas that lit the sky, and it made her sad, and she wondered where her own soul would go and what she would look like; and then she snorted, because wondering that made the assumption that she'd still have a soul by the time she died.

Her mood had deteriorated as much as her sobriety had returned; with it, angry melancholy. She stood abruptly and flung open the door. The deep brown of her eyes seethed, not unlike the ocean, and she stalked through the halls of Grimmauld Place.

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**A/N:** Merry Christmas Eve :) I hope Santa is kind to you.

If you could spare a moment of your time to drop me a quick review, I promise a prompt personal response and to answer any questions you might have.  
Thank you to all who have favorited me and put this story on alert -- I'm amazed, delighted, and inspired.

does not appear to want to center what I'm asking it to. Although it disrupts the flow of continuity between the chapters, I have decided to accept this for now, and to update for you anyway.

Love always,  
**Threnody**.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

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**18 November 2009.**

_Her mood had deteriorated as much as her sobriety had returned; with it, angry melancholy. She stood abruptly and flung open the door. The deep brown of her eyes seethed, not unlike the ocean, and she stalked through the halls of Grimmauld Place._

Her step was fluid, more like a dancer than the warrior she had been only hours before. The grace she exuded would have been so beneficial on the battlefield – but she wasn't thinking about war or blood or beauty or grace. She was thinking about panting, of heated skin, of domination and a center of gravity. She wanted control and anonymity, release and inconsequence. She wanted control.

She found it in a man named Summers when she crossed into the kitchen. She spent five minutes in front of the refrigerator staring blankly at curdled milk, raw eggs, Stilton cheese and yesterday's curry before she chose a block of cheddar and sliced chunks from it with a dull knife she found in a drawer. He had light hair and skin bronzed by someone else's sun, and she wished he was the season. She sat across the table from him, and watched through narrowed eyes. She didn't flinch; she used her teeth against a small square of cheese and closed her lips in a way that could have been innocent had her eyes not been boring into his. She was unpracticed but it was erotic, and heat rose in his skin. When she rose, he did too, and he followed her when she stepped into the hall.

It was Wednesday and she was feeling reckless, and she didn't want him in her room. Perhaps by chance, but more likely intent, she opened the door that Snape slept in, and once inside, instead of closing it, she left it ajar.

Her curiosity flared and she ran her fingers along the wall and brushed the lamp on the nightstand by the bed. She heard the hinges of the door in their soft protest and she whirled with fierce eyes and a drawn wand. Summers met her eyes in challenge, but he raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. Her body smoldered when he cautiously shut the door, and she didn't balk at his advance. Slowly, he took her hands and tried to press her against the wall, but she hissed, and he found the wand she still held at his throat.

Her body melded with his like it was meant to be. Her body was soft and pale, and he didn't notice that her waist was wider than it could have been or that her stomach wasn't hard. In this moment she wasn't shy and he was busy inhaling her careless abandon because it was sexy and he was lost in her bravado.

When she growled, he relented, and she knew she had won. With the ease of a predator, she backed him from the wall into the Potions Master's bed, and he whimpered softly when her lips touched his neck. He moaned when her teeth closed on his shoulder, and he groaned when her nails cut into his scalp.

"Stay," she growled when she took steps back and pulled her shirt over her head. She didn't blink when she undid the button that held up her pants.

"Off," she commanded when she cocked her chin and set her hands upon her hips. She was expectant, impatient, and he hurried to comply. Not soon enough (_too soon!_) he was naked before her, and _he_ wasn't what she wanted, but _it_ was what she needed, and in arousal (_frustration_) she growled at him again and pinned him beneath her in the bed. She knew what to expect this time and she took him in her hand. He was hard and his cock was like velvet, and she took a moment she examined the color and the veins. She put him where she wanted him and moved, skin against skin, friction at its best. It didn't take long before he came, but he was too intimidated to leave her. He withdrew from her and finished with his fingers and his tongue. It took too long, but finally she arched and screamed in such a way that the window rattled, but she came.

She sucked in her first breath, but she spent her second with one word.

"Go," and he did. He scrambled to put on his underpants, and though he left his shirt and his shoes, he all but ran from the room. She thought his intimidation was odd, because she'd smiled when she spoke. It would have taken her a mirror to understand, to see that her eyes were dull in a dead sort of way, that even in the dark, her skin held an unhealthy sheen of pale.

She gave him ten minutes before she slipped from the sheets, waiting for her heartbeat to slow and her breath to quiet to normal. Dressing was more difficult than she had anticipated. She was shaky, and in retrospect, sex had not been a good decision - she was supposed to be recovering, physically and magically, because she sure as hell wouldn't recover emotionally any time soon. She rolled her shoulders methodically and considered it a success, though. She hadn't thought about Voldemort or Alicia or Ron's drinking or Kenneth fucking Towler, who had the audacity to die in front of her for… approximately thirty-nine minutes and seventeen seconds. A blank mind was an understated bliss, something new for her to cherish.

She changed the sheets the Muggle way and lit a candle to diffuse the scent of sex from the room. Curling her lip, she picked up his shirt and shoes and shut the door as she left. They would go to the community stash of emergency clothes, and they would serve someone else well.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly, and she forced lightness into her step. From the hall, Bill saw her come from Snape's door, and he saw red, and his wrath was palpable as he watched her walk away.

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**A/N: **Summers is mentioned as being an already-graduated Hufflepuff. I took the liberty of making him interact with the Order. I'm not sure what he does, precisely – he might push papers, he might be a consultant, he might… remove Nargle infestations, I don't know. He's mentioned somewhere in the books (verified by the HP Lexicon), and I decided to reinforce his existence because Hermione needed an outlet.

I feel the need to tell you that I'm writing after seven (oh dear) glasses of wine; this equates to not quite two bottles, but my usual limit is two. I love the holidays and my family, and I might be more.. disinhibited than usual. I truly intended this chapter to feature Severus, but apparently Hermione needed… something. O.O

I hope your holidays are as wonderful as mine!

Love always,  
**Threnody**.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

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19 November 1998.

Dawn had long since broken, but Severus never knew. His private laboratory was below the ground, in the most interior of the castle and bare of even magical windows, because this was the only way his potions were not contaminated by something so easily controlled as excess light. For him, time passed in small increments and counter-clockwise stirs; the twenty-four hours of someone else's day didn't matter here.

His students spun tales of vampires and Darkness and he knew he was called the Greasy Bat of the Dungeons. Severus was too cultured to be so uncouth as to roll his eyes even in the privacy of his lab, though a lesser man might have snorted. He'd long since abandoned the hope that even one student would understand the art that was potion-making and as such, he had things he considered more important with which to waste his breath upon than explaining the way that air currents, temperature, and light, be it artificial or natural, could decimate a delicate potion… important things such as breathing, which he did even as Alicia Spinnet did not.

In the dim light his eyes snapped, a flash of obsidian suffocated by the red haze of infrared. Long fingers hesitated as he kept the count in his head; two hundred eleven; two hundred twelve; two hundred thirteen, and he splayed his fingers and let two ounces of powdered horn of a unicorn fall into the cauldron, he watched as the liquid seethed. With a pewter rod, he stirred four times counter clockwise and murmured a stasis charm to hold his work constant. Carefully, he donned dragonhide gloves and lifted the cauldron. He decanted the healing potion by hand because it was fragile; it was something of his own creation that he had woven the ingredients together by _feel_ and little more than instinct. Traditional healing potions hadn't worked for the girl, and he'd be damned before he _let_ her die.

_Stupid Gryffindor_. His eyes snapped again and he allowed the surge of anger because it was safer than guilt. He had cast Sectumsempra because he'd created Sectumsempra, and it had fused with him, become a part of him in the same way the billow of his cloak had become a part of him. When he cast, he had done so after watching Hermione Granger fall, roll, rise, and aim her wand both in practice and here, while under fire. He'd cast because he knew where she was then, and where she would be fractions of a second later. He'd cast accurately. No one else had been in her vicinity until Lucius had cast a burning hex, and Alicia Spinnet had invaded the space he'd designated for his curse. _Fucking Gryffindors_.

And yet… she had been his student, and she was clearly a member of the Order of the Phoenix. _T__here aren't enough of us to attack each other. _Something too close to guilt flung itself with those words and banged the corners of his mind, and he set his jaw against it all.

She wouldn't live. He knew this, just as surely as he knew he was already damned. It didn't mean he wouldn't try.

He hadn't been hopeful, and so he hadn't been disappointed when the potion had failed. During the brief moments that Poppy had lifted the magical stasis, Alicia deteriorated rapidly, and in the rush to re-stabilize her, his left arm burned, and Severus swore fiercely enough to earn a look of reproach from the Mediwitch.

* * *

The call was too early. His heart rate might have increased, but he was silent as he left the hospital room to enter his own and he retrieved his Death Eater robes. The bone of his mask was cold in his hands and he slipped it into an inner pocket. He paused briefly, closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, and he pressed against the dark skin on the inside of his forearm and when it burned, he corrected his mind. It wasn't pain; it was adrenaline, and the surge in his veins kept him alive. He rolled his shoulders and turned on his heel, and he Apparated straight from his room.

The wards of Malfoy Manor yielded as easily as the gates for him, and something akin to pleasure stroked the fibers of his being when he passed through. Narcissa stood in the entryway. She was lovely in blue, and the shade of ice in her gown echoed that in her eyes. He took the hand that she offered to him and brushed his lips over the back. She smiled then, but it was grim, and the tension she carried in her shoulders made his own want to ache.

"Good afternoon, Severus. I trust you are well?" She took his arm and led him from the drawing room, and the casual ease with which she spoke directly contradicted the urgency of her step. That she had received him instead of an elf spoke volumes, and a tingle of unease wove its way between his bones.

"Quite well, Narcissa. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I am concerned that Draco's enthusiasm for his education is waning and would like to further discuss the subject with you when you've the time. I simply wanted to be sure that I caught you today before you left, and what better way to do so than to greet you as you arrived?" Even speaking softly, Narcissa's voice had a musical quality that soothed the ear, and not for the first time, Severus appreciated that a beautiful woman was rarely perceived as intelligent. Narcissa had devoted her entire life to nurturing the image of the perfect Pureblood lady; she was gentle and generous; she was sophisticated; she was the embodiment of docility, and she was ravishing. Her home was immaculate and her reputation was flawless. She masked her mind behind sweet smiles and hid wit behind etiquette. Yes, he decided, Narcissa Malfoy was downright terrifying, and he was glad that more women were not like her.

"It would seem that young Mr. Malfoy's attention is a finite resource, and that an increase in attention to a certain Miss Greengrass is directly proportional to the decline in his attention to his schooling. It is a topic that I had planned discussing with you and Lucius later this evening, actually. Unfortunately, I must leave you here. Until then, Narcissa."

He inclined his head to her and swept through ballroom doors and dropped to his knee before Lord Voldemort.

"Rise." And so he did, though he kept his eyes low and his head bowed. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

"I am displeased, Severus. Do you know why?"

"I dare not presume to know the wonders of your mind, my Lord." A lazy exhale and absence of pain served as approval for this answer.

"Two events took place on Tuesday. Nine of my Death Eaters could no subdue seven members of the Order of the Phoenix. Thus, the second event that took place was that countless hours of your time have been rendered useless. Your potions, or lack thereof, do not affect me as much as they affect the eight of you that remain, though I do suggest that you rectify the loss immediately. I am displeased that nine of my most senior Death Eaters proved themselves to be incompetent. _Crucio!_"

Two decades had taught Severus to give, to let his knees buckle and to roll into the cold marble floor. Two decades had taught Severus to unclench his muscles methodically, beginning with his jaw and ending with the last joints in his toes. Two decades had taught Severus that nothing he did would minimize the pain, but four still hadn't taught him not to try.

When the curse was lifted, his body continued to tremble. In the time that it took him to recover, Voldemort had levitated him and the red of his eyes burned Severus' mind as he clawed through his mind and scrutinized his memory. For the second time, Severus stood beside Poppy and administered his custom healing draught to Alicia, and for the second time, he was unsurprised that his efforts had failed. He found himself in the potions storeroom, long fingers touching glass jars as he put forth genuine effort to healing the Gryffindor girl. His heart beat angry staccato against his chest when smoke and haze and spellfire lit the sky and he saw Hermione Granger throw up a shield powerful enough to block a series of curses and bought the Order enough time to destroy the storage house. Finally, he saw walls that built a Malfoy ballroom and Voldemort standing before him.

"Your Lord is merciful, Severus. The construction of Sectumsempra is flawless. I see that even you have failed to staunch the damage it creates. With such authentic effort, you earn the Order's trust. Continue trying to beat yourself, Severus.

"Potter's mudblood – was this an accurate display of her abilities?"

"You are gracious, my Lord. Even if not for blood inferiority, the girl only possesses the level of skill that can be taught. Her marks are acceptable, though the faculty blatantly favors her, but she lacks any ability to progress beyond what a textbook can teach her. This reaction was emotionally driven, something akin to accidental magic. I do not believe she would be capable of producing the same result twice simply because it requires an individualized touch, a certain focus... and originality, if you will. She lacks the capacity to work outside a book."

"This is predictable, of course, but it is good to hear my suspicions are confirmed. You are dismissed." Severus knelt and brought Voldemort's robes to his lips, and then he rose again and backed away, exiting the room without turning his back.

**

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A/N:

I promise, you want to read the next chapter. You just do.

Love always,

**Threnody**.


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